


the flour on your skin like freckles

by BoxOnTheNile



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mentions of Tuckington, References to Depression, au where grif is a baker, self harm is in the past though, there may be a second part? if people like it?, this has been unfinished in my documents for over a year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-05-03 16:30:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5298341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoxOnTheNile/pseuds/BoxOnTheNile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I was gonna open a bakery. I was working on finding a location when I got drafted. Fucking war, man. It wasn’t even real. Freelancer took me from my family, my life, to have their fucking soldiers shoot at me. Now it’s over and I still can’t go home.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“You know, Armonia has a couple cafes with decent coffee, but the pastries are utter bullshit. Were you any good at baking?”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“No, I was gonna run a bakery full of fucking charcoal.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	the flour on your skin like freckles

**Author's Note:**

> My original prompt for this was the word "lanai." It turned into Baker!Grif. Okay.
> 
> I started this story in my second year of high school. I am now in my fourth. This is 1300 words. What the fuck.

Grif had been homesick before he even left Honolulu. His parents and Kaikaina had been bright and smiling, but they knew- all of them- that soldiers hadn’t been coming home lately. Dexter Grif may be in possession of a Harvard diploma, but to the Army (to Project Freelancer), he was just a breathing target. 

Then it was Basic and shipping out and a Sergeant that hated him and a squadmate he may have fallen desperately in love with the way he never thought he would. Tex and Wyoming and the future that wasn’t the future and sneaking Kaikaina back home and ten years of shit accumulating until Chorus. He broke down when he found out the recovering government (some kind of civil war) couldn’t get them home yet, probably for a year or two.

Tucker, incredible friend he was, listened to Grif’s breakdown. The Hawaiian was drunk enough he didn’t remember it, but Tucker told him it wrought with sobbing and swearing. 

“You need help, Dex,” Tucker told him. “Like, a therapist or some shit. What I heard last night was a near carbon fucking copy of what a friend told me before he tried killing himself. Don’t… Damn it, Dex, I don’t wanna lose another friend.”

Grif tugged on the hem of his tee shirt. “I don’t wanna kill myself, Tuck. I wanna go home. I miss Hawaii. I miss the sand and the ocean and the warmth and my family and the fucking _lanai_ -”

“The fuck is a _lanai_?”

“Heathen,” Grif muttered. “It’s, like, a porch with a roof and fucking pillars and shit. I used to read in mine.”

“You read?”

“Shut the fuck up, I went to Harvard and got a degree in business.” The Red sighed. “I was gonna open a bakery. I was working on finding a location when I got drafted. Fucking war, man. It wasn’t even real. Freelancer took me from my family, my life, to have their fucking soldiers shoot at me. Now it’s over and I still can’t go home.”

Tucker nodded slightly. “I get it. I was a tattoo artist.” His smile is forced, but there’s just a hint of easiness to it that makes Grif believe that maybe everyone fucked over in Blood Gulch could be okay, in time. “When we get back home, I’ll give you whatever you want.”

“You fuckin’ kidding me? I’ve seen tattoo parlors around. You could probably work at one while we wait to get home.”

Tucker nodded. “You know, Armonia has a couple cafes with decent coffee, but the pastries are utter bullshit. Were you any good at baking?”

“No, I was gonna run a bakery full of fucking charcoal.”

The laughter loosened knots in Grif’s chest that had been there since they crashed on Chorus. Tucker was right, though. It would be a while until the Blood Gulch Crew (and Wash) could get home, and Grif may as well take his own advice. He began reviewing recipes in his head to make sure he remembered them all, and hey, wasn’t marzipan Dutch? Did Simmons like it?

Tucker elbowed him. Grif jabbed his own elbow into Tucker’s ribs, grumbling. Yeah, so the Hawaiian was head-over-heels, Tucker wasn’t any better off, the fuck. 

“Lay off, dickhead, you space out anytime someone mentions your pet Freelancer, I can fantasize about my fucking scones.”

The Blue snorted. “That was a ‘Simmons’ look, not a food look. Don’t bullshit me. When’re you gonna man up and have sex with his ass?”

“About the same time you fuck Wash.”

“Man, you have more of a chance for Simmons’ dick than I have for Wash’s, so don’t even go there.”

Grif ran a hand through his curls, fisted it at the back of his crown before dragging his palm down his face and across the stubble on his jaw. He emerged with a world-weary smile. “Feel like job hunting? I’d like to replace the calluses on my hands from carrying guns with ones from a whisk.”

**_αβΓΔεηΘιΣΩ_ **

When four people and a robot shared an apartment, there wasn’t much in the way of privacy, so of _course_ the whole fucking team noticed when Grif was up before ten. 

It was actually six thirty, so Sarge almost dropped his coffee mug when Grif shuffled into the kitchen to steal bacon from the plate Donut had on the counter. Simmons choked on his orange juice at the table, plate already loaded with toast and fruit. Right, he was vegan.

“I thought vegans didn’t eat eggs,” Grif grunted at him. “Bread has eggs. Do pastries not count?”

“Unfertilized eggs,” Simmons muttered. “Why the hell are you up?”

“Work,” the Hawaiian slurred sleepily, rubbing at his eyes. He went to pour coffee, chocolate croissant recipes dancing across his mind.

“You got a job?” Donut asked. Grif realized the kid was genuinely curious.

“Yeah, little hole-in-the-wall bakery couple blocks from here. I was gonna open one like it in Honolulu before I was drafted. The puff pastries were a day-old when I applied. Fuckin’ atrocious.” Grif shook his head condescendingly. “I walked the owner through a butterscotch-cream puff recipe and he hired me on the spot.” He smiled a bit, sipped his coffee, took a piece of Simmons’ toast and headed for the bathroom to change. 

He spent most the day in a happy daze, surrounded by the smell of yeast and his skin dusted with flour. He brought home the chocolate croissants he daydreamed about that morning, one for everyone (except Lopez, but that was understandable). 

For the first time in twelve years, Dexter Grif was able to really, truly _relax_. He felt at ease with his life.

αβΓΔεηΘιΣΩ

Of fucking course. _Of course_ two mercenaries hired by fucking Charon of all things caused Chorus’s civil war. Of course they were waiting to start it again. _Of course that’s where Church and Carolina went._

Grif meandered into the apartment building that the BGC(+Wash) lived in and found Simmons waiting in the foyer, looking world-weary and tired.

“Carolina’s back,” he said. “She found out why we crashed. Apparently, Project Freelancer isn’t gone ‘til it’s _gone_ , so Wash and Carolina painted a fucking target on all of our backs.” Simmons explained what the Agent and the AI had told the others while Doc stitched her up. The Chairman of Charon had led an insurrectionist group against PFL years ago. He’d hired a UNSC splinter cell as personal protection, and Project Freelancer was made to hunt down those cells. Now, the Chairman was planning to take down the last two Freelancers- and Chorus, if he had to. The shaky, post-civil war government was currently a house of cards, and Charon had rehired two mercenaries known as Felix and Locus to send it toppling, dragging Wash and Carolina down with it. 

Grif wished he was surprised, he really did. 

“What do we do now?” he asked Simmons.

“I don’t know.”

“We’re all gonna fuckin’ die,” Grif decided, “so I’ve gotta do this before I chicken out.” And he kissed Simmons. It was soft and chaste and quick, and Grif pulled back after a moment to brace for the other soldier’s reaction.

Simmons, wide-eyed and disbelieving, lifted a hand to his mouth. “Are you making fun of me?”

“Let me answer that question with another question. Would you hit me if I said no?” Grif felt his nails dig into the heel of his hand, a nervous habit from college, one of the few remnants of a time categorized by scars on his thighs and a stash of Prozac in his room.

Several emotions flitted across Simmons’ face: disbelief, hurt, confusion, and settled on hope. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’ve always been honest with you when it mattered,” Grif said curtly. “I like you. I have since Blood Gulch, you stupid fuck. I might even love you. I definitely want to hit that.” He grinned at Simmons’ blush and pulled him into another kiss. Simmons responded this time. The kiss was awkward and messy and their noses scrunched together. Grif pulled back, laughing. Simmons looked downcast for a moment, but Grif just chuckled and nuzzled his cheek. 

He wanted to continue in this moment, holding the man he loved and knowing he was going to be alive tomorrow, but his life didn’t work that way. “Okay,” he murmured, “let’s go see Carolina.”


End file.
